


can you carry my drink? (i have everything else)

by void_fish



Category: Hockey RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 17:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13463388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/void_fish/pseuds/void_fish
Summary: The first time Mitch meets Dylan, he’s on his back on the ice, blinking at the ceiling.





	can you carry my drink? (i have everything else)

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this for my dear friend lifenonsense like... a year ago, and two weeks ago, got off my ass and decided to finish it, because i'm the worst friend ever.
> 
> this is, i believe, my first time writing either of these guys? probably not my last, i had a blast writing mitch, so... stay tuned, i guess enjoy!

The first time Mitch meets Dylan, he’s on his back on the ice, blinking at the ceiling.

‘Shit, man, I’m sorry,’ the guy who hit him says, skidding to a halt and dropping to a knee. ‘You okay?’

‘Fine,’ Mitch says, sitting up. ‘You gonna hit the other team as hard as you just hit me?’

The guy shrugs, holds out his hand. ‘Depends on if they’re fast enough to get out of the way.’

‘Fuck you, I’m plenty fast,’ Mitch says, ignoring the hand and picking himself up.

‘Sure,’ the guy says, grinning at him through his cage. ‘I’m Dylan. Stromer, if you want.’

‘Mitch. Or Marns,’ Mitch says. ‘Freshman? You’re fucking tall for a freshman.’

‘Or you’re short,’ Dylan counters, still grinning.

‘Seriously, fuck you,’ Mitch says. It just makes Dylan’s smile bigger.

The whistle blows to start the next drill, and Dylan wheels around, sprints down the ice. He looks kind of like a baby giraffe that hasn’t learnt to use all of his legs at the same time yet. Mitch rolls his eyes and follows at a much more sedate pace.

-

The coach puts them on the same line, because of course he does. Mitch tries not to roll his eyes when he catches Dylan smirking at him.

They play— really fucking well together. Well enough that at the end of practice, Dylan hipchecks him gently on the way off the ice and says, ‘This is gonna be a fun season, eh?’

‘If you don’t try and kill me again,’ Mitch says, but he’s smiling, and Dylan laughs.

‘So where are you living?’

‘Edison,’ Mitch says. ‘You?’

‘Same building.’ Dylan says. ‘Maybe we’ll see each other around. Lemme give you my number.’

‘—Sure,’ Mitch says, and when he peels himself out of his gear he hands his phone over, and Dylan taps his number in. In his pocket, his phone buzzes.

‘I texted myself,’ he says. ‘Now I can call you if I get lost or bored.’

‘--Sure,’ Mitch says, again. He has a bunch of numbers in his phone from his first couple of days on campus, mostly guys in his dorm. So far the only one he’s texted has been Auston, his roommate, when he locked himself out of the building on his first night there. He doesn’t think he’ll hear from Dylan until next practice.

-

‘Marns!’

‘--Hi?’

Mitch is— tipsy. Not _drunk_ , okay. But he’s had… a few. Maybe more than a few. He’s fine, though. He doesn’t know who’s calling him, had just picked up without looking at the screen.

‘It’s me, Dylan! Are you at this party?’

‘I’m at— a party,’ Mitch says. It takes him a second to connect Dylan with the guy that hit him earlier in the week. The guy he played really, really good hockey with. ‘Oh, _Dylan!_ ’

‘Yeah! Where are you? I was gonna tell you to come to this fuckin’ sweet party, but it sounds like you’re already here.’

Auston had dragged Mitch to the party of one of the guys on the hockey team, a senior, Mitch thinks. Matt, maybe? Doesn’t matter, really. What matters is _beer_ , and the girl that’s been giving him the eyes for like ten minutes now.

‘Marns!’

Dylan appears out of nowhere, red cup listing dangerously to one side. He beams when Mitch sees him, and bounces over.

‘Having fun?’ Mitch asks. Dylan’s hand slides around his waist like it’s supposed to be there.

‘This party is _awesome_ ,’ Dylan says. ‘Seniors, man.’

Mitch has to agree, right up until the Leaning Red Solo Cup of Natty Light tips right over his jeans, and he has to put Dylan in a headlock.

-

Mitch and Dylan are friends now, he guesses. They have all the same friends, anyway, and they go to all the same parties, and they’re kind of killing it together on the ice, which is cool.

Mitch could be friends with worse people, anyway. Dylan’s kind of a sore loser at beer pong (also everything ever), and he hugs way too much for any normal person, but he’s cool. Mitch likes him.

-

Mitch likes him a _lot_ , apparently.

Here’s how it goes down:

They’re watching the new Spiderman movie, because it’s four am and neither of them can sleep, and Mitch loves Spiderman, and Dylan loves to lie on the couch. It’s fine. It’s not a thing.

Mitch doesn’t realise Dylan’s fallen asleep until he slumps right over onto Mitch’s shoulder, heavy. His stupid frosted tips tickle Mitch’s ear, but when Mitch tries to wriggle away, Dylan makes a pathetic sound and snuggles in closer.

‘Ugh, fine,’ Mitch says, and puts his arm around Dylan, trying to angle away from his hair without actually moving either of them. It’s-- not terrible.

The movie is pretty good, and Dylan’s pretty warm, and once he settles, he’s like a corpse, doesn’t even twitch. When the movie ends, it’s easy to just-- drift off with him.

Mitch wakes up with morning breath, a dead arm, and Dylan Strome as his little spoon. His hair is still in Mitch’s nose. It smells like coconut. 

Mitch should wake him up. They should both get up before they get busted by Dylan’s suitemate, and have to put up with the endless chirping. He shifts, and Dylan makes a tragic sound, shuffling backwards and trapping Mitch between his back and the couch pretty effectively. 

“God, _fine_ ,” Mitch says, and goes still. Dylan doesn’t respond. 

Mitch glances at the clock on the wall. His alarm is going to go off in a half hour; they have morning practice. There can’t be any harm, he convinces himself, in closing his eyes for just a little longer. 

He wakes up the second time when his alarm blares, and Dylan full-body twitches, falling off the couch with a thud. His hair is a _disaster_ , even more than usual, and he blinks up at Mitch, bleary eyed. “Did I fall asleep again?” he asks, sleep-hoarse.

Fuck, he’s cute, thinks Mitch. 

_Fuck_.

-

The thing about being friends with Dylan Strome, Mitch learns, is that occasionally, you find yourself in a study group with _Connor McDavid_ , and you have to deal with Dylan making gross heart eyes every time _Connor McDavid_ opens his stupid, chipmunk mouth.

‘He’s not even all that great,’ Mitch tells Auston, who, to his credit, is at least pretending to listen while he gets destroyed by his buddy Zach on CoD.

‘Mmhm,’ Auston says, and then, ‘Fuck you, motherfucker, I see you hiding behind that tree.’

‘He thinks he’s super smart because he’s taking _Latin_ as his language elective,’ Mitch continues, picking up momentum. ‘But he’s _not_.’

‘Sick burn, bud,’ Auston says, doing something complicated with the controller and squinting. Mitch can’t tell whether that’s to him or Zach.

‘He’s _too_ good at hockey,’ Mitch says. ‘I _hate_ him.’

With that, Auston sighs, tells Zach he has to bounce but he’ll hit him up later for a rematch, and tugs his headset down to hang around his neck.

‘Do you hate Connor McDavid?’ he asks. ‘Or do you hate that he has Stromer’s attention when you want it?’

Mitch gives that question the dignity it deserves, and flips Auston off.

Auston sighs again. ‘Fine,’ he says, and puts his headset back on. ‘Z?’

‘You’re terrible at CoD,’ Mitch says, and flounces out of the room to the common room, where at least he can watch baseball while not sulking.

(He’s not sulking. He’s Not. He’s only digging into a pint of ice cream because his coach wants him to get his weight up. No other reason.)

-

The hockey team has a holiday party. Mitch wears his _ugliest_ sweater. 

(Okay, fine, he steals an ugly sweater from Auston. It’s huge on him. _Whatever_.)

Dylan is wearing a plain red sweater, a santa hat, and a cotton wool beard.

‘You look dumb,’ Mitch informs him, handing over a cup of vodka and coke.

‘I look _great_ ,’ Dylan says. Mitch tugs on the beard and hums.

-

There’s mistletoe.

‘Who the fuck brought _mistletoe_ to an all-guys party?’ Mitch complains, to anyone who’ll listen.

He watches Barz collar Chabby, pull him in for a disgustingly wet kiss.

‘Gross,’ Dylan says, from behind him. ‘Why is Barz even allowed at these parties?’

‘He brings the weed,’ Auston says. He’s wearing a _nice_ sweater and has done his hair. It’s like he didn’t even get the ‘ugly holiday dress’ memo.

-

Mitch can tell the exact second _Connor McDavid_ turns up, because Dylan practically leaves an outline of himself behind, like the Roadrunner.

‘You’re pouting,’ Auston informs him.

‘Fuck you, I am not,’ Mitch says, and takes a sulky swallow of beer. Across the room, McDavid is holding court, wearing a sweater with a reindeer face on. It has a flashing red nose. And bells. 

Mitch can see Dylan’s heart eyes from across the room.

‘I need more beer,’ he says, to no one in particular.

-

Mitch is lying face down on Auston’s bed.

‘You know, you could just tell him how you feel,’ Auston says, from the desk. ‘Or you could mope anywhere that isn’t _my bed_.’

Mitch flips him off without looking up.

‘Mature,’ Auston comments. ‘Wanna tell me I’m a stupid-head while you’re at it?’

Mitch puts Auston’s pillow over his head and tries to smother himself.

-

Mitch is drunk. Again.

It’s a Saturday, they have no game tomorrow, and he’s _pining_ , he’s allowed to be drunk. Again.

Auston is doing shit like _be responsible_ and _finish his paper_ , but fuck that.

‘Oh my god,’ he says, loudly.

‘Uh,’ McDavid says. ‘Hi?’

‘This isn’t even a _hockey party_ ,’ Mitch says. ‘Why are you _here_?’

‘I have friends who aren’t on the team?’ McDavid offers.

‘Ugh,’ Mitch says. ‘ _Fine._ ’

‘Have you seen Dylan?’ McDavid asks.

‘Why would I have seen Dylan?’ Mitch asks, nasty.

‘Uh,’ McDavid says. ‘You guys are friends?’

‘Not like you,’ Mitch snaps. He glowers into his cup; it’s empty. Again.

‘Uh,’ McDavid says again.

‘Why is he always following you _around_?’ Mitch asks.

‘We’re-- friends?’

Mitch snorts. ‘Are you paying him, or are you just sucking his dick?’

‘Hey,’ he says, and he looks _angry_. Mitch doesn’t think he’s ever seen a facial expression on McDavid before. ‘What’s your issue, Marner?’

‘ _You’re_ my issue,’ he snaps. God, Mitch needs a fucking _refil_ l.

‘What did _I_ do?’

‘Everything!’ Mitch says, throwing his hands in the air. His empty cup lands behind him. ‘You’re fucking _everywhere_ , every time I want to hang out with Dylan, you’re in the way!’

‘I- I’m not stopping you guys from hanging out,’ McDavid says. ‘And I’m certainly not _sucking his dick_ as payment for being his friend, jesus.'

‘Could have fucking fooled me,’ Mitch says, nasty.

‘Christ,’ McDavid says. ‘How drunk are you?’

Mitch shrugs. ‘Not drunk enough,’ he says. ‘Maybe I’ll get drunk enough to throw myself at Dylan like you do.’

He spins around to go to the kitchen for another drink, and--

Dylan is standing right there, flushed and angry.

‘--Dyl,’ Mitch says, surprised. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I was meeting Connor,’ he says, icy.

‘Of course you were,’ Mitch says, looking over his shoulder and curling his lip.

‘You’re fucking drunk,’ Dylan says. ‘Go home, Marns.’

‘Of course I’m drunk, it’s a _party_.’

‘Go _home_.’

‘Fine,’ Mitch says. ‘I’ll leave you and Connor to your fucking _date._ ’

Dylan looks _mad_ , now. ‘Fuck off, Mitch,’ he says. ‘You don’t know anything.’

Mitch scowls. Dylan shoves past him and goes up to McDavid.

Mitch fucks off.

-

‘Can we have this conversation not in the library?’ Auston asks, _finally_ looking up from his computer.

Someone, Mitch doesn’t know who, mutters, ‘Please, God, have this conversation literally anywhere else.’

‘Are you willing to leave the library?’ Mitch asks, folding his arms.

Auston checks the time on his phone. ‘This paper is due in twenty seven hours, and I have a hundred and eighty words. I’m not going anywhere.’

The person who muttered groans quietly.

‘Then no, we can’t have this conversation not in the library,’ Mitch says.

Auston sighs, shuts his laptop, flips his notebook closed, and picks everything up.

They end up in one of the weird semi-soundproof pod things that people use to practice presentations and shit in. Mitch is expecting Auston to listen to him, but he just goes right back to his paper.

‘ _Auston_ ,’ Mitch whines.

‘I only came in here to stop you from being murdered by everyone out there. I have practice in tuning your dumb ass out.’

Mitch huffs.

‘By all means, keep telling me about your problems,’ Auston says, and then flips another page in his book.

Mitch considers flouncing. He’s an excellent flouncer, he’s done it many times before, to great effect.

‘I think I ruined things with me and Dylan.’

‘Dylan and I,’ Auston corrects, absentmindedly.

‘Seriously?’ Mitch asks, before shaking his head and powering on. ‘He overheard me giving McDavid shit, and I guess it made him mad, so I got mad at him, and then...’ He trails off, embarrassed.

‘Makes sense,’ Auston says. ‘What would you do if you heard him giving me shit?’

Mitch opens his mouth and pauses. ‘Point,’ he allows.

‘Have you tried apologising?’ Auston asks. He’s typing now, eyes flickering from the page to the screen.

Mitch doesn’t say anything. Auston looks up at him.

‘You’re an idiot,’ he says. ‘What is wrong with you?’

‘I’m drunk?’ Mitch tries.

Auston sighs.

‘Go home,’ he says. ‘Sober up. Tomorrow, you can try apologising, like an adult.’

‘Do I have to apologise to McDavid, too?’

‘Connor should be your _first_ apology,’ Auston says, appalled. ‘Jesus christ, how have you gotten this far in life without being _murdered_?’

‘I make friends with people bigger and stronger than I am who can defend me,’ Mitch says, shrugging.

‘Apologise to _Connor_ ,’ Auston emphasises. ‘Then maybe go see if Dylan will even entertain you.’

‘Ugh,’ Mitch says. ‘Fine. I’ll bring you coffee tomorrow morning?’

‘That’s the least you can do,’ Auston says, serene, and he hits the enter button decisively.

-

He means to go home. He really does. Instead, he texts Andy, because Andy’s always up at this time on a Saturday, and he gets Connor McDavid’s address.

McDavid opens the door and immediately looks wary. His fingers flex like he’s going to slam the door in Mitch’s face.

‘Please don’t,’ Mitch says, putting his hand in the doorframe. ‘I wouldn’t blame you if you did, but-- please don’t break my hand?’

McDavid relaxes his grip on the door. Mitch relaxes his entire body.

‘Have you come to yell shit some more?’ McDavid asks. ‘Because Dylan’s not here.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Mitch says, before he chickens out.

‘I-- okay,’ McDavid says. ‘Because Dylan’s not here, or…?’

‘For being an asshole.’

‘Uh huh,’ McDavid says. He doesn’t seem particularly convinced.

Mitch decides he should go. This was a terrible idea. His mouth doesn’t get this memo.

‘I’m just jealous,’ he says. McDavid’s eyebrows go up slightly. ‘Which isn’t fair. So-- I’ll stop.’

‘Being jealous, or an asshole?’ McDavid asks

‘Both?’ Mitch tries. ‘Mostly the second, I can’t promise the first. I--’ He pauses, figures he’s already laid his whole damn heart out in front of _Connor McDavid_. ‘I really like him.’

McDavid reaches out and pats him on the shoulder, awkward. ‘It happens,’ he says.

‘I should go home,’ Mitch says. ‘I-- fuck, I’m so drunk.’

‘Do you want me to make sure you make it home?’ McDavid asks, which is so surprising Mitch forgets to answer until McDavid says, ‘Mitch?’ and waves a hand in front of his nose carefully.

‘Why are you being nice to me?’ Mitch asks.

McDavid shrugs slightly. ‘You apologised, and you seem like you mean it, so.’

‘Thanks,’ Mitch says, genuine. ‘I’ll-- I’ll be okay though.’

McDavid nods, careful, and watches Mitch make it down the corridor before shutting his door with a soft click.

-

Mitch isn’t really sure how he ends up outside Dylan’s dorm room.

He _is_ sure that this is definitely a great idea, though.

He bangs on the door until Dylan answers it, hair sticking up and out in every direction possible. He’s wearing a t-shirt with the collar completely torn off, and boxers with R2-D2 on them. Mitch is momentarily distracted but just how fucking much he likes Dylan that he’s willing to overlook _Star Wars boxers_.

‘What the fuck?’ Dylan asks, stifling a yawn. ‘It’s-- I don’t even know what time it is, Mitch, it’s fucking late, that’s what time it is. What are you _doing_ here?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Mitch says, before saying anything else.

‘For…?’ Dylan asks, folding his arms.

‘Being an asshole. To you, but also to Connor. And about Connor.’

Dylan sighs. ‘I don’t even get what your problem is with him,’ he says.

Mitch is _stil_ l drunk. That’s his excuse, anyway, when he opens his mouth to say he’ll stop being an asshole, and what he actually says is, ‘I just want you to look at me like you look at him.’

Dylan unfolds his arms. His mouth actually drops open a little bit; it makes him look even more ridiculous.

‘I’m gonna go,’ Mitch says, when Dylan doesn’t say anything else. He backs up a little, and Dylan’s stupid long arm reaches out and snags in Mitch’s shirt. 

‘No you’re fucking not,’ Dylan says, and pulls Mitch into his room and into a kiss.

‘You’re such an _idiot_ ,’ Dylan says, when they break apart. ‘Also, you taste like someone who drank a whole bottle of rum and then chewed a mint plant to try and hide it.’

Mitch had swallowed his gum in panic when Dylan had pulled him in for a kiss. He does not bring this up.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he says. ‘Also, I’m not an idiot.’

Dylan laughs. He has one hand fisted in Mitch’s shirt and the other on his cheek, thumbing over his cheekbone. ‘You kind of are,’ he says. ‘I don’t look at you like I look at Connor, because he’s my best friend.’

Mitch colours. ‘You don’t have to be mean about it,’ he mutters.

‘I don’t want to sleep with my best friend,’ Dylan continues, like Mitch hadn’t said anything.

‘Well I know that _now_ ,’ Mitch grumbles.

‘It’s because I want to sleep with you,’ Dylan says.

‘Yeah, I got that,’ Mitch says, even though his stomach does a weird flip thing that he’s pretty sure is Dylan related and not to do with the aforementioned bottle of rum.

‘I just wanted to make sure,’ Dylan says. ‘Seeing as how you spent the entire semester thinking that I was sleeping with Connor.’

‘It’s not my fault you two are super weird about each other!’ Mitch protests, but Dylan is already leaning in for another kiss.

-

(Mitch doesn't end up taking Auston coffee in the morning. He's-- preoccupied. Sue him.)

-

Mitch isn’t going to lie, after he figures things out with Dylan, life is really fucking sweet.

He still has to deal with McDavid hanging around, but he also gets to climb into Dylan’s lap and look smugly at him, so. Silver lining and all.

Mitch gets back on Dylan’s wing for playoffs. He threatens to ask for a new center if Dylan insists on dying his hair blonde like he’s been saying he will for weeks now, but Dylan just laughs at him, and then _Coach_ laughs at him, and now he has to look at Dylan’s stupid frosted tips every time they spend the night together.

Whatever, at least they’re winning games, and Dylan is scoring goals like he’s going to be expelled if he doesn’t, and Mitch is there with the assist every single time.

(Connor is also doing his own thing, but _whatever_ , Connor’s not sleeping with the soon to be playoff MVP.)

The final game is-- well, it’s a final game, Mitch feels like he’s made up entirely of nervous energy. He spent the night in Dylan’s tiny bed, and eventually Dylan had to pin him down and jerk him off to get him to chill out enough to sleep, but now it’s game time, and that’s not really an option. Mitch is going to vibrate right out of his skates.

‘Hey,’ Auston says, while they’re getting dressed. ‘Breathe.’

‘I am breathing,’ Mitch says. His hands are shaking so much he can’t get the velcro on his shinpad fastened right.

‘You’re going to have a heart attack on the ice if you don’t calm the fuck down,’ he says. ‘And then you’ll never get to third base with Stromer.’

‘I’m going to kill _you_ on the ice,’ Mitch says, fastening his shinpad and tugging his sock up over it.

When Mitch opens the scoring, Dylan crushes him into the glass and yells in his face. It helps a lot, weirdly, and by the time the first period is over, they have a three goal lead, and Mitch has added an assist.

When Mitch scores again in the third period, Dylan looks like he’s going to kiss him there on the ice.

‘Having yourself a fucking _game_ , Marns!’ he yells, bumping their helmets together.

‘If I get a third goal, you have to let me blow you,’ Mitch yells back, before any of their teammates join the huddle.

The look on Dylan’s face is priceless, Mitch is going to keep that memory _forever_.

-

They win 5-2. Mitch doesn’t get his third goal, but he _does_ get a trophy, and he gets to watch Dylan get his MVP award, _and_ they get to get full scale wasted at the victory party, so. Mitch figures it’s a pretty good day with or without the blowjob.

Dylan is _toasted_. He gets super red in the face when he drinks, it’s probably one of Mitch’s favourite Dylans. He’s clutching a cup of something that honestly smells like paint thinner, and he swaggers over to Mitch and slumps in his lap, kissing wetly and messily at his jaw.

‘Hi,’ Mitch says, nosing at his ear. Dylan grins at him, wonky. His hair is starting to grow the blond out, and that might actually be worse, Mitch thinks.

‘I’m deally runk,’ Dylan says. ‘Like, _really_.’

‘I can’t tell,’ Mitch deadpans, and Dylan honest to god _giggles_.

Mitch looks at his watch and sighs, finishes his drink and heaves Dylan into a standing position, eternally grateful that he weighs less than Mitch despite being fully six inches taller. ‘Come on, lightweight, time to go.’

Dylan stumbles his way to fresh air, and as soon as they’re out of sight of the frat house, he stands up straight and starts walking properly.

‘You shit,’ Mitch says. ‘You were _faking_.’

Dylan grins, winks at him. ‘I owe you a blowjob,’ he says. ‘Figured you wouldn’t want me to do it in front of the whole team.’

‘Oh my god,’ Mitch says. ‘I love you.’

Dylan’s smile gets even wider, and he pulls Mitch in for a kiss. So yeah, Mitch figures, as Dylan pulls him down past the quad and towards his dorm. Not a terrible day, all things considered.


End file.
